


The Three of Them

by Carenejeans



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-09-08 23:22:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8867386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carenejeans/pseuds/Carenejeans
Summary: Three wandering friends wander homeward.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [killabeez](https://archiveofourown.org/users/killabeez/gifts).



> Thanks to Tehomet for beta-reading. Smooch!

Amanda primped in the mirror at the jewelry counter. Behind her was a mug in a track suit, idly pawing through a pile of women's purses. Her lip curled. It was harder, these days, to slip a nice piece of silver into one's cleavage. In the old days, the mug would have been the only thing she'd have to worry about. Now everything was tagged, and scanned, and inlaid with chips -- one or all of them set to scream bloody electronic murder unless a friendly sales associate deactivated them in return for a swipe of one's credit card. And then there were the cameras and the motion detectors and the face-recognition software. Amanda spotted three security devices, one of them via the mirror (behind and above the mug), one aimed at the counter where she stood, and one scanning the aisle that led out into the mall. It was almost impossible to drop something, perhaps that necklace with the opal pendant, into one's purse and 'forget' to pay for it.

Almost impossible. Amanda reached for the necklace. But her hand froze before she touched it. She felt the familiar pulse of an immortal presence, and with it, the familiar dread. Oh, hell. She turned slowly. The overfilled aisles crowded with holiday shoppers had been in her favor as a thief; now they worked against her. Nobody looked out of place, nobody was watching her -- or even ostentatiously _not_ watching her. The mug had lost interest in her and was following a trio of teenagers.

Feeling suddenly claustrophobic, she made her way towards the exit into the mall, where there was more space, stairs and landings, vantage points. The pulse came closer, and in a panic she floundered into a maze of tightly-spaced circular racks displaying coats and scarves that seemed to cling to her and drag her down into a tangle of mohair and silk. For a moment she was trapped, not just by the coats but shoppers, who in a zombie-like daze seemed wedge themselves between herself and freedom.

"MacLeod sends his regards," a voice hissed close to her.

"What?" Amanda looked around frantically, but saw nothing but zombie shoppers.

"He's coming…" The whisper faded. Something cold touched the back of her neck.

Amanda yelped and spun around and tried to sprint, only to blunder into a young man piling boxes on a display and collide with a woman bearing shopping bags. Amanda fell down hard on her butt, cursing, and trying to smile at people who helped her to her feet. She finally made her way out into the mall. The immortal was gone. She frowned and hurried down the mall. She reached into her coat pocket for her phone, and pulled out not only the phone, but the necklace she'd been admiring. "Hi Joe," she said, talking to voicemail. "Amanda. I just had a weird encounter with an immortal." She held up the necklace to the light. "And he left me a present." She clicked off the phone and set off grimly for the exit. Her panic had drained away. She was annoyed. Her shopping was utterly ruined.

On her way out, she dropped the necklace into a trash can disguised as an elf.

****

"Don't you ever answer your phone?"

"How's the weather, Joe?"

"Sunny with a chance of mayhem, smartass. Someone is killing immortals."

"Someone is always killing immortals. Other immortals, usually."

"This guy is serious."

"He does seem to be devoted to it."

"You know about it? When did you hear?"

"Ah, hm. A few weeks ago. After Campbell. Before Hart."

"I just got it. How is your intel better than mine?"

"Well, actually, I had a visit from him myself."

"Wait a minute. You saw him? You fought?"

"Hardly. One of us would be headless if we had."

"So what happened?"

"I'm not sure. He caught me off guard. I was at an art exhibition. Installation type stuff, moving lights and mirrors, easy enough to lurk about and sneak up on someone. Which he did."

"He challenge you?"

"No, it was weird. It was more like a sort of -- pre-challenge."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"He got close enough for me to know he was there, then spouted some nonsense about MacLeod in a sinister whisper, and then he was gone."

"About Mac? What did he say?"

"Well, he whispered, sinisterly, but it was something about how Mac was coming for me soon."

"Coming for you? As in after your head?"

"No, to take me dancing. Yes, after my head."

"And you kept this to yourself?"

"Didn't want to worry you."

"Worry me? Methos, you are the most--"

"Charming? Handsome? Likely to succeed?"

"Try Annoying."

"I'm hurt, Joe."

"Yeah, yeah. Listen up. I need to know this stuff. It ties together."

"With what?"

"This guy did the same thing to Amanda."

There was a silence on the other end of the phone.

"And MacLeod?"

"Not a peep."

"You know where he is?"

"I do, yeah."

"Give me a hint, Joe."

"I'm not sure I should. If he's--"

"If he is, I'm the one to find out, yes?"

"Damn it, Methos!"

"Just give me his address."

*****

"I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. Show yourself."

Duncan stood in the dark alleyway, sword drawn, skin crawling from the presence of another immortal.

Not a friend.

Laughter came softly from the shadows to Duncan's right. He spun in the direction of the sound.

"Beware of Methos," the whisper seemed to come from somewhere to Duncan's left.

Duncan pivoted, while keeping an eye on the shadows, balanced, ready to lunge forward in either direction. "What do you know of Methos?"

"I left a little gift for Amanda." Now the voice was conversational and came from behind Duncan. "She does so love the glitter. As long as it's gold."

Duncan felt ice prick his spine. "Who are you? What is your name? Show yourself!"

Again, laughter. Behind him. Duncan spun around, but the crawling feeling had left his skin. There was no one there.

****

Nick wasn't there. Amanda argued with him as if he were.

"I have to go to him," she said, aiming her argument at a spot somewhere near the center of the room. She circled it as she spoke. "You have to understand." She threw her hands in the air. "He's my oldest friend -- okay," she said, putting her hands on her hips. "He's more than that. He always will be. And I owe him."

"What?" she said to an imagined rejoinder. "Yes. I owe him. I'm not -- I haven't always been good at paying debts. I'm getting better at it. You taught me that." 

She pivoted slowly, arms outstretched, beseeching the emptiness. "Nick, I know I ruined your life. And for that I will pay, for as long as I live."

She stopped and closed her eyes for a second. "But I've got other debts."

She began pacing. "I have to keep him safe. Methos is in Seacouver. I'm joining him. What? I owe him too. As a matter of fact," she stopped again and looked up at the ceiling.

"As a matter of fact, the three of us owe each other debts we can never repay. You'll understand that, in time. All we can do is," she pursed her lips. "Try."

She paced. The center of the room was silent. Nick wasn't there.

"I have to go to him."

She slung a bag over her shoulder, grabbed her suitcases and banged out the door.

The room was silent.

A moment later, the presence of an immortal shimmered in the empty air.

****

"So you're heading for San Francisco?"

"Tomorrow."

Joe and Methos sat drinking companionably in the bar, with bottles between them on the table. Scotch for Joe, and rum for Methos. He'd told Joe he was feeling nostalgic. "Winter does that to me," he said. "Makes me yearn for the Caribbean. Sunshine, heat, islands. Pirates."

"I can see where a guy would get nostalgic for pirates," Joe said dryly.

"If you live as long as I have you can get nostalgic for anything," Methos said.

"I know it's none of my business," Joe said after a moment. "But I always wondered. Why did you come here to Seacouver after Mac left?"

"Are you trying to interrogate me when I'm ineber-- ebriated?" Methos frowned, counting syllables. "It's none of your business." He sighed, and relented. "All right. Don't tell anyone, especially not him."

"My lips are sealed," Joe said.

Methos reached for the rum. "I stayed because I'm not just a fool, I am the world's _oldest_ fool."

"That bad, huh?" Joe shook his head.

"That bad." Methos topped his glass, took a drink and grimaced. This stuff was too sweet, if you really wanted to get drunk. It was like trying to drown your sorrows in candyfloss. He wasn't on the islands anymore. He was in a civilized place, a place that had beer. Ah well, too late to switch.

"No offense, but how long to you plan to wait?" Joe sipped his scotch slowly, his head moving slightly to the rhythm of music playing softly over the speakers. Unconsciously, his fingers played a run up and down an imaginary guitar neck.

Methos watched Joe's fingers move as if they held some long-lost secret. He swallowed a mouthful of sweet rum and grimaced.

"As long as it takes, Joe." He was silent for a moment. "I can wait for a very, very long time."

"Yeah, but can he? I mean, he always attracted challengers, but he's worse now."

"I have every faith that MacLeod will outlast us all," Methos said, smiling at some inward memory.

"Even you?"

"Especially me."

"That's rough," Joe said, shaking his head.

Methos shrugged. "It is what it is. He was silent a moment, then sighed and pushed away his glass. "This stuff is vile. Pour me some of yours. I need to get drunk."

*****

Duncan ran in a steady pace through the park. He took in his surroundings automatically, the bicyclists flitting by like brightly colored insects or black and silver robots, young women trotting behind aerodynamic strollers, elderly women walking purposefully, homeless people walking aimlessly, all of them busy with life and not a part of his.

But he noticed them more, these days. He noticed the blue eyes of the young mother and listened to the muttering of the homeless man sitting on a bench. The world was coming back into focus. He felt he was coming out of the dark time.

Dark years spent alone, trying to understand, to find answers. He had studied, taken vows, joined orders, made pilgrimages to places said to inspire wisdom. He had focused his whole attention on this path or that theory until the path turned threadbare and the theory faded into morning mist. 

Then came the darker time, the reckless time, when he'd given up on reason and let himself fall into the insanity of the Game. He hadn't feared for his head, because he hadn't cared enough for his life. He had met the challenges and he had fought, and he had won, but he had taken no joy in it. He had never turned into a hunter, seeking out immortals to take their heads. At least he had never done that.

He didn't need to. They came to him with death in their eyes. And he had met them and fought them and believed he had forgotten them.

Duncan had called Joe the moment the immortal who had issued the strange non-challenge had gone. The man knew who Methos was. Methos had to be warned.

Duncan felt the familiar knot in his chest whenever he thought about Methos. He lived in the loft in Seacouver. Duncan didn't know how he felt about that. He wouldn't have thought Methos would hang around, much less live in the place they had shared. Duncan had to admit that he often didn't understand Methos at all. He could be so infuriating, so unreliable, so cynical -- and so loyal. Was it loyalty that kept him in Seacouver? Patience? Stubbornness? There was one way to find out. He would ask him. The knot in his chest tightened in what he was surprised to realize was fear. No, it was worse than fear. It was _nerves_. He put Methos out of his mind.

Amanda had to be warned, too. The knot in his chest melted. He smiled, thinking about Joe's wry comment. "Gone straight. Teamed up with an ex-cop private eye, can you beat that?" The man was mortal. He must be important to Amanda if she'd put on a white hat for him. Well, he could ask that too.

It was time to rejoin his friends.

******

Duncan's house was a well-built bungalow, painted blue with white trim, with a minimum of gingerbread. "Probably restored it himself," Methos muttered as he raised his hand to knock. Then he thought better of it and reached into his pocket. He drew out his lock-picks and fourteen seconds later (Amanda would be proud), he slipped through the door.

"MacLeod?" he called softly. If Duncan was there, Methos would have felt his presence by now. The place was empty.

Methos wandered through the house. It was a shotgun place, one small spartan room after another. He touched a small stack of books, a pottery jug, a Navajo blanket draped over the back of a sofa. These were new things, with stories behind them Methos didn't know. Yet they were familiar, in a way. The room had Duncan's stamp on it. Methos moved through the second room, a kitchen and dining room that made Methos feel even more like he was in a place Duncan had made home. He sat for a moment on a comfortable stool next to a counter that held a simple grouping: a plate, a mug, a bowl. A home for one. He sighed.

The next room was Duncan's bedroom. Methos was surprised by a stab of longing in his gut that was so strong he had to hold onto the door frame to keep himself from throwing himself across the bed.

"Damn you, MacLeod," he said through gritted teeth. "This is what I get for letting my guard down after five thousand years." His voice sounded strained, missing the ironic note he was aiming for. Good thing there was no one to hear him.

Methos looked around the room. "Gone again, are you?" The signs were all there. Everything too neat, too tidied away. He opened the small closet. More hangers than clothing. Gaps in a line of shoes on the floor. "Look in his underwear drawer, Sherlock," Methos muttered. "Count his socks." Chagrined, he yanked open a drawer in the small bureau next to the bed.

"Oh."

It was just a sweater. White, somewhat worn, a bit stretched here and there.

He lifted it from the drawer as if it were a relic.

He knew every worn spot. Every place where the knit was pulled out of true. He'd worn it often enough, pulled it from Duncan's bureau the way he was doing now, pulling it over his head--

No, he wasn't going to go that far. Was he fifteen?

He lowered his face into the soft material and breathed. Oh, God.

His cell phone rang and Methos started guiltily. He let the sweater fall back into the drawer.

Fifteen, he thought in disgust.

He pulled the phone from his pocket. It was Joe.

"What?" he snapped, glowering at himself in an antique mirror -- rose-colored, what the fuck?

"You okay?"

"Yeah, fine. What's up?"

"MacLeod isn't in San Francisco," Joe said.

"I guessed that." Methos slammed the drawer shut.

"What was that?"

"Nothing."

"Sounded like--"

"Just closed a drawer."

"Where are you?"

"Duncan's place."

"Oh. Wasted trip, sorry."

"Not really," Methos said, thinking about the sweater and feeling a sudden lightness in the vicinity of his breastbone.

"Yeah? Well, anyway, his watcher says Duncan left San Francisco this morning and is on his way to--"

"Let me guess. Seacouver."

"You got it."

Methos sighed. "I'm on my way."

As the plane to Seacouver rose from the runway Methos closed his eyes. In his mind's eye ran an old-fashioned newsreel of a map depicting the routes of the three of them, dotted lines and arrows running across the North American continent, all pointing to the big red X that marked Seacouver. No, four lines. Three friends.

And one enemy.

*****

Duncan stood in the parking lot outside Joe's Bar. The place looked the same. Not many cars in the parking lot this time of day; it would be full after the sun went down. He could hear blues. Not Joe. The music stopped, started again. The neon in the window, glowing softly in the overcast afternoon, gave out a comforting welcome. It was the first place in a long, long time, where he had felt like he was coming home. He smiled, feeling a pang that was half pain and half relief. He shifted his backpack on his shoulders and walked through the door.

"Duncan MacLeod," Joe greeted him as he came in. "It's been too long, friend."

Joe looked the same, too. Older. But the smile, was the same, the glint in his eyes. He was already pouring a glass of Duncan's favorite by the time he sat down.

"Joe," Duncan said. They raised their glasses.

"Thought I might not see you again," Joe said.

"I'd always come back here."

"Yeah, but the way you've been going, I might have shuffled off my mortal coil before you swung around here again." He grinned. "If you could have taken off on one of those probes going to Mars, you would have."

"I had to -- think."

"Yeah." Joe lifted his glass. "We've all been doing that."

Duncan shot him a look, but Joe's face was bland.

A man at the far end of the bar signaled, and Joe moved down to replenish his drink.

"You've given the Watchers a run for their money, anyway," Joe said when he came back. "They sure earned their keep these past few years."

"That's all over," Duncan said.

"Glad to hear it." They were quiet for a moment. "You here to stay?"

Duncan raised his glass, studied the amber liquid. "It depends."

Joe nodded. "He's here. It's been his landing place, I guess you'd call it. He's been on the move too." Joe's smile was wry. "His orbit is shorter."

Duncan nodded. He turned the glass between his fingers.

"She's here too," Joe said.

Duncan looked up.

"I thought she was in the Midwest somewhere."

Joe's eyebrows raised. "So you've been keeping tabs. Yeah, she was. But that hit a snag."

"He's not dead?" Duncan felt the old dread that lurked in the hollow places in his heart. Their lives were so short. They were gone too soon.

Joe shook his head. "You're behind the times. Didn't you hear? He's one of you."

Duncan put the glass down on the bar with a bang. "Ah. Well. That complicates things."

"She came here, Mac."

"Right." He downed the rest of the scotch and pushed the glass across the bar. "I should go."

"You should wait," Joe corrected him. He refilled Duncan's glass.

Duncan hesitated, then took the glass. But he sat it down on the counter when he felt an immortal presence -- no, two. Relief flooded him. Friends. He never understood how he could feel the difference between them and other immortals. But the difference was there. Methos's presence was stronger, had been since that strange quickening they'd shared at Bordeaux. But Amanda's was strong too. Strong and sure. The presence of these two immortals held no fear for him. Their immortal energy touched him, filled him with longing. Another sort of welcome. Another kind of home.

The door to the bar opened slowly.

And there they were.

*****

"I've missed this," Amanda said.

It was after hours at Joe's. The four of them sat at a table.

"Very cosy." Methos raised his glass. The other three followed suit.

Joe watched them. They smiled and talked -- politely enough. Gonna take them a while to get back to their old ease with each other. He sipped from his drink. He could feel the old strains, the old fractures, the wariness. But there was also something else there, something hopeful. It was good that Amanda was there. She could -- referee wasn't quite the word. She wasn't without skin in this. She and MacLeod were on again off again, and there had been times, Joe knew, when Mac would have cheerfully thrown her off a bridge.

But not taken her head. Mac would never be able to do that.

Joe watched Methos watch MacLeod. It had come closer to that between Mac and Methos, he knew. Knife-edge close, and that wasn't a metaphor. Amanda and Methos were -- friends? Lovers? Both, he guessed. He shook his head. This triangle made his head hurt.

"Penny for your thoughts, Joe," Methos said, a faint smile on his lips.

"Just pondering an eternal question in geometry," Joe said.

Methos's smile grew larger. Duncan glanced at Amanda, whose face took on a bright look of innocence.

"We've got a name," Joe said, before things could get more awkward, "Jason Kennard. He hasn't had a Watcher on him for decades."

"Why not?" Duncan said.

"The Watchers thought he was dead. The records show his head was taken by a new immortal in 1952. But it looks like either the Watcher got his facts wrong, or--"

"Or he set it up," Duncan said.

"Smart," Amanda said.

"It only works for so long," Methos said. "Immortality is too long. Memories are too long. You get found out eventually."

"Says Adam Pierson," Joe said with a wry smile.

Methos shrugged. "Exactly. It worked for a long time. Just not forever."

"Now that we know who he is, we have a connection," Joe said. "Between him and," he tipped his glass towards Amanda. "You. You knew him as Jacques Chenier "

They all looked at Amanda. "But we parted on good terms, well, not good, but -- amicable."

Duncan snorted.

"We agreed to go our own ways. No hard feelings."

"What did you steal?"

"I didn't steal it. I -- liberated it from him. It was _mine_." Her eyes flashed, and Joe was reminded that beneath this woman's flirty and sometimes flighty exterior was an immortal who had lived twelve hundred years. By diverse and devious means. By killing, if she had to. "Anyway, I don't know why he's suddenly after my head. It's been forever. I don't even have it anymore," she said, somewhat sulkily.

"Who does have it?" Methos asked. "Out of curiosity."

"The National Museum of Natural History," she said, and flashed a quick smile.

Duncan raised an eyebrow.

"Well, part of it. Never mind that. I don't know why Jacques -- or Kennard or whatever he calls himself now is after me. Now, I mean. After all this time."

"What about you?" Methos asked Duncan.

"Yeah," Joe said. "The only thing I could find in the Watchers records says that you and Kennard were 'associates' in a monastic order, unknown. The notes are sketchy and whatever was there when you were is long gone, even to history."

Duncan sat back in his chair. "Yeah. It was a monastery. A poor one. It came to a -- bad end. There was no one left to keep its history. No one left who wanted to," he amended.

"God," Methos said. "Monks again."

"Were you associates with him the way you were associates with Darius," Amanda said, "or associates like you and Kalas?"

Duncan considered. "Yes," he said finally.

"Well, that clears that up," Joe said.

"Sorry, Joe. It was complicated."

"What isn't?" Methos said.

"Was your 'association' with him complicated?" Amanda said.

Methos stood up to reach over the bar for another beer. He sat down at the table and placed the bottle before him like a talisman to ward off bad spirits. "Actually, no."

"No? What happened?" Amanda leaned towards him.

"Nothing. I never met the man," Methos said.

"He knows you as Methos," Duncan said.

Amanda's eyes widened. "But how--"

"Kalas," Methos said.

Joe nodded grimly.

"Kalas," Duncan repeated softly.

Amanda looked pained. She sipped her drink without looking up. "So he's trying to take all of us on? At once?"

"Apparently," Joe said.

"He's playing with us," Duncan said. "Like an assassin who leaves a calling card to let you know he was there while you slept and could have killed you."

"Yes," Amanda said, remembering the necklace in her pocket.

"He must know our history with each other," Methos said. "Putting us all on alert doesn't seem to be an especially clever idea."

Joe hesitated. "Look at it another way," he said reluctantly. "You guys haven't exactly been -- close lately." They all looked down. "Maybe he thought he'd be setting you at each other's throats."

"That is not going to happen," Amanda said flatly, glancing from Duncan to Methos.

Methos shrugged. "What _are_ we going to do?"

Duncan looked at him. "I'd think it's obvious."

"Not to me."

Joe held his breath. This is where it could go wrong.

Duncan leaned over the table towards him. Methos looked like he wanted to lean away, but he held his ground. "Why are you here, Methos?"

"As opposed to -- where?" Methos said, trying for a flippancy that didn't quite match his voice.

"Holy ground?" Duncan said. "Kathmandu?"

"I like the scenery," he said, holding Duncan's gaze.

"Methos--"

"Okay, fine," Methos looked at Amanda, who returned a look Joe couldn't decipher, and lifted his chin. "I came here to join the Three Musketeers, what else."

Duncan snorted.

Methos laid his hand on the table in front of Duncan. "All for one, and et cetera. Yes?"

Amanda showed her teeth in something that was not quite a smile, and placed her hand over his.

After a moment, Duncan reached out.

Joe let out his breath and raised his glass in salute.

*****

"Old home week," Methos said, passing around glasses.

Amanda beamed at him.

Duncan took his glass and looked around the room. "Looks the same."

"Pretty much," Methos said, following Duncan's gaze to a pile of books on the floor. "A bit messier. The booze is the same."

Duncan's face had turned mellow as he sipped the good scotch Methos had poured out, but now his brows lowered. "'Booze' is not the word for this."

Methos shrugged. "Whatever."

"This is the finest whisky made!" Duncan jabbed a finger at Methos's face. "It should be savored and treated with respect! It is not 'booze'."

"It tastes good with a bit of lemon," Methos said.

Duncan was speechless.

Amanda's laughter pealed out. "Duncan, he's goading you. Drink up, will you? And relax."

Duncan glared at Methos.

Methos returned a look of wide-eyed innocence.

Duncan knocked back the scotch as if it came from the ten-dollar rack at BevMo.

Methos turned his head and unsuccessfully suppressed a snort.

Duncan sank into a chair and put his face in his hands.

Methos and Amanda exchanged looks. Methos shrugged. Amanda rolled her eyes.

Duncan's shoulders were shaking. "Damn your eyes!" said through laughter, rising from the chair and wiping his eyes. He lunged, and before Methos could react, had enveloped him in a bear hug. "Ach, Methos, I've missed you. And you." Duncan flung out an arm and gathered Amanda into the fold.

MacLeod hasn't changed, Methos thought, trying to get some air into his lungs. Still the same emotional, sentimental, scotch-loving Highlander. But even as Duncan refilled their glasses and chivvied them into a toast to friends and lovers Methos thought: he's still Mac, but he's different. The darkness still clings to him.

*****

Duncan stood behind his kitchen counter -- well, technically, it was Methos's kitchen counter, but it still felt like his. He only wished he had something to cook, but Methos hadn't stocked the pantry. Unless you counted a square of pressed tofu and some wilting greens. Duncan toyed with the utensils standing in a silver can, raising an eyebrow at a spatula in the shape of a rocket ship. He felt almost comfortable here in the old loft. He glanced up at the source of the one note of discomfort, and found Methos smiling at him.

"We can order pizza in," he said, as if reading Duncan's mind.

"Taken care of, darling," Amanda said. "I've ordered a basket from Tony's. It'll be here about fifteen minutes." The two men looked at her in surprise. She shrugged. "Men haven't changed much in a thousand years. They still want food after a good--" she grinned and licked her lips. "But they don't think about going out and bringing down a buffalo beforehand. So to speak." Duncan felt his face turn warm, and avoided Methos's eyes. Instead, he watched Amanda as she moved around the room, picking up objects and examining them. Touching things, running her fingers along surfaces, switching lamps on and off. He almost asked her if she had a pair of white gloves, but then he realized she wasn't really aware of what she was doing. She was thinking, immersing herself in the familiar and at the same time a million miles away. She touched him every time she came near enough. Sometimes she reached out for comfort, he felt. Automatically, unthinkingly. But then she would smile up at him, utterly focused and completely present. Friendly, flirty, promising much for later. Then her touch awakened in him all the old feelings, lust and exasperation and yes, love.

As she touched him now, winding her arm through his and snuggling close, he thought: She's different, somehow. Something haunts her.

*****

Amanda stood with her back to the loft, looking out the window at nothing much. She was trying to give them a bit of room. But as the silence lengthened behind her, she sighed and turned around. The two of them were still circling. Obviously they needed to talk. We all need to talk, she thought. None of us are the same as we were the last time we were in this room together.

They _would_ talk. But, she thought, narrowing her eyes as Methos gave Duncan a hearty bro-grip to the bicep while Duncan nodded like a manly, strong, silent _clam_ \-- first things first.

"You've put out the best," Amanda smiled at Methos as she fluffed a pillow and laid back a sheet. Heavy satin. It flowed through her fingers like sex. She winked at Duncan and slid between the sheets.

\-----

What Duncan liked best was the laughter. He liked a bed full of satin sheets and three people underneath, skin to skin, too many limbs. It was best with the lights turned down, to be surprised by kisses, someone's mouth on his cock, someone tickling his feet. Eventually there would be serious fucking and obvious parts belonging to obvious partners, but this took his breath away; he loved to lose himself in it so deeply the three of them melded together into one lusting, laughing being.

"Methos's tub is better than your old one," Amanda said to Duncan dreamily. "Longer, thicker."

Duncan groaned.

She turned to Methos, touching one of his bare feet with hers. "The three of us fit in here nicely -- four might be a bit crowded. Five would be, hm. Do you have orgies often?"

"Don't tell anyone, but this is the first orgy I've been to since 1969."

"Ah, then we're breaking it in," she sighed, wriggling her shoulders and reaching under water to take a cock in each hand. The faces of both men took on a glazed look. She gave a squeeze. Duncan gasped and Methos smiled. "I especially like that part there," she nodded towards a section of blue tiles. "Those handholds there are quite" -- she squeezed again -- "suggestive."

She smiled at Methos and then at Duncan. "So who wants to be the first to fuck me against the wall?"

Methos watched Duncan and Amanda going at it against the tiles. The handholds were perfect. Duncan's hands were clenched around them as if he was holding on to the hull of a ship and Amanda was wrapped around him like a wanton sea creature. Methos avidly watched Duncan's ass working as he drove himself into her. Amanda laughed, and when Methos met her eyes, she gave Duncan's neck a long lick, watching Methos. Methos's hand went to his cock, but then he stopped. He draped his arms over the side of the tub, watching the glorious show that was Duncan's body, muscles working, buttocks tensing, skin gleaming in the steam. He winked at Amanda and felt around in a basket placed near the tub. He plucked out a small tube and held it up. Amanda held Duncan in a starfish embrace and laughed as the waves of their orgasm washed over them.

\-----

What Methos liked best was thoroughly rogering Duncan from behind. There was just something about that beautiful, strong, muscular back. And his ass, of course. His ass was magnificent. He liked to watch Duncan kneeling before him, hands outstretched, head down. Of course, if his head was buried in Amanda's lap, that was just extra. 

Duncan, panting, barely had time to catch his breath as Amanda slid down his body and back into the water, sighing blissfully, before he was mugged from behind, manhandled out of the tub and onto the mat next to it, shoved down with his face in the mat and his ass in the air.

"You -- are -- going -- to -- pay -- for -- this," he said between gasps as Methos entered him and thrust in a desperate rhythm. "--later."

"I'm counting on it," Methos said behind him, a smile in his voice.

Methos reached around and took Duncan's cock in his hand. All of the air left Duncan's lungs at once. Methos's hand started up a syncopated rhythm. Duncan's cock was hard.

"Oooh," Amanda said. Duncan turned his head to see her leaning on the edge of the tub, her chin propped up in one hand. "I just love the immortal refractory period."

Duncan grinned at her, then closed his eyes and saw stars.

\-----

What Amanda liked best was lying in bed between Duncan and Methos, safe and snug and sated. She liked the kiss-kiss-kiss after sex. A kiss from Duncan -- on her lips, a breast, an inner thigh. A kiss from Methos, sometimes a little bite, a bit of tongue to a sensitive place. A kiss between Duncan and Methos, long and slow and sweet, as their hands ran over her body.

******

They walked into Joe's bar just before closing time. Joe took one look at their faces and grinned and set out their drinks along the bar.

"Celebrating something?" He winked at Amanda, who gave him a cat-with-the-cream smile.

"We are," Amanda said. She leaned over the bar conspiratorially. "Would you pour a whisky sour, please? We have a bet going."

Joe looked from Methos, who wasn't quite smirking, to MacLeod, who rolled his eyes. "Anything for you, Miss Amanda." He reached for a bottle of Johnny Walker.

"The Macallan," Amanda instructed. "Twenty five please. Thirty if you've got it."

Joe raised an eyebrow. Duncan looked pained.

"Fine," Joe said. He mixed the drink and set it in front of her.

She slid it in front of Duncan, who stared at it as if it had a snake in it.

Amanda smiled at him sweetly and leaned towards him.

Methos's eyes were laughing, though he kept his face straight.

Joe wondered what the bet was.

Duncan's eyes fell to Amanda's cleavage. She breathed deeply.

Never mind. He could guess. "I'll just be over there," Joe said, feeling a bit too warm. "If you need anything else."

But before he could take up his bar towel, all three of them tensed, raising their heads like deer sensing a hunter. Ah, crap, Joe thought. He's here.

"Company," Methos said, echoing his thoughts.

The door banged open. A man stood framed in the doorway. Dramatic ass.

"We're closed, pal," Joe said.

"Duncan MacLeod," the man intoned. Like a bad actor, Joe thought.

Duncan rose and turned towards him. "Jason Kennard," he said. "I am Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod."

Methos and Amanda rose to stand with Duncan.

"Your friends can stand down," Kennard said. "I'll attend to them later."

Amanda drew her sword, but Duncan held out an arm to hold her back.

"He wants all of us," she snapped, "he can fight all of us."

The man bowed slightly, as if to accept her challenge. The man was crazy, Joe realized. He looked like a freak high on meth. The man glanced at Joe. His eyes glittered like black pools under the stars. Joe shuddered. Meth _and_ mushrooms.

"I'll go first," Methos said, as if they were talking about getting on a bus.

"He called me," Duncan said.

The man stood in the door and grinned. Joe felt under the counter for his gun. Just in case, he told himself.

Methos looked at Duncan for a moment, then shrugged and fell into a studied slouch.

Duncan turned to Amanda. "Fine," she said, and stepped back.

Kennard grinned a death's head grin and whirled out the door. Duncan followed. Methos and Amanda exchanged glances, then followed Duncan.

Joe sighed, and followed them all.

Joe had witnessed a lot of immortal challenges over the years, but this one was different. It started out in the usual way; Duncan and Kennard faced off and the fight began. Joe was surprised to see that the two men were about evenly matched, despite Kennard's obvious madness. Well, maybe it was _because_ of his madness. Joe tried to watch the fight through his Watcher's eyes, but his fingers itched to pull his gun out of his pocket and plug the bastard. But he knew that would just delay the inevitable.

Then Kennard landed a blow to Duncan's head with that sent him reeling to the ground, and things got weird.

Amanda made a sort of keening sound and drew her sword, running towards Duncan.

But Methos was there before her. Joe didn't see him move, but there he was, standing between Duncan and Kennard like Death himself.

"Stand aside," Kennard said.

In answer, Methos lunged at him. Their blades clashed. Methos forced him back, away from the fallen Duncan.

Amanda knelt beside Duncan, working to revive him and get him standing.

"You cannot interfere!" Kennard furiously slashed at Methos, who jumped back.

Methos smiled without humor. "I'm afraid he's the one who's the stickler for the rules," he drawled. "I myself have always taken them more as guidelines." He lunged again, forcing Kennard back.

"No! No!" Kennard screamed, "Him first! Get out of my way! It must be him!"

"Your dance card has changed," Methos said, panting as he parried Kennard's desperate attack. "Duncan's sitting this one out. You get me."

"No, you get _me_." Amanda appeared at his side, grinning like a shark. Her blade joined Methos's and together they harried the furious Kennard, who was screaming vitriol and threats. He fought badly, and wildly, but with enough desperation to hold his own.

By this time Duncan was fully on his feet. At his shouted command, Methos and Amanda leapt to each side of him as if they'd practiced it for years. He strode forward as the challenger, caught off guard for a second, stumbled. Duncan gave him a fraction of a second to recover before mercilessly attacking, driving Kennard down. With a sound that was less a shout than a banshee wail, Kennard rolled, regained his feet, and came at Duncan with nothing left but sheer fury. Duncan pivoted and swung his blade.

The stillness after the pandemonium always got to Joe. He felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck as the quickening began.

Joe stood transfixed as the weird lightning flashed through Duncan's body. As many times as he'd seen this happen, he could never look away. It was always different. The unholy force that was the quickening was as individual as the immortals who fought and died. Methos and Amanda stood a little aside, their hands clasped before them. And as the last flicker of lightning played around Duncan's body, the strange thing happened.

Duncan was kneeling. Methos and Amanda stood on either side of him and reached out -- Joe expected them to help lift Duncan to his feet. Instead, they laid their hands on his shoulders.

Joe was never sure, and for some reason he could never ask Duncan about it later, but it seemed to him that as the other two touched Duncan, a small spark arced out from him, splitting and touching each of them in the heart.

*****

"So what exactly was he after?" Duncan said. "That thing about -- what did you call it? The dance card?"

"He wanted to fight each of us. In order," Methos said. "Or rather Duncan first and me last. Which put Amanda in the middle."

"But why?" Amanda sat with her elbows at the table, massaging her temples. "What difference does it make?"

Joe cleared his throat. They looked at him. "Could be some kind of endgame," he said. "Killing other immortals for their power. Taking their heads and their quickenings. Revenge was just icing on the cake."

"He was a follower of Kalas," Methos said. "He knew who I was. He was following Kalas' original plan, except he mixed it up a bit."

"Collecting on old grudges," Joe agreed. "But he had no grudge against you. He wanted you for another reason."

"Methos was the trophy," Duncan said bitterly. Methos looked up at the tone of his voice.

"Fine," Amanda said. "He had a score to settle with me, and with Duncan. Though we were just a warm-up for the main event," she said, as she flapped a hand at Methos. "But, Joe, why all of us together? After he snuck up on all of us separately?"

"I don't think he meant to fight us _all_ at once," Methos said. "But he was seriously unhinged by the time he got here. I guess he thought he'd just go for broke."

"He thought you were enemies," Joe added. "He probably thought he'd set you at each other, and he could take care of whoever was left. Which he figured would be Methos, I guess."

Methos shook his head. "He seriously misread the situation."

Duncan smiled and put his hand out on the table. The other two grinned and covered his hand with theirs. The three of them looked at Joe.

"Four Musketeers?" Joe grinned. Then sobered. "I'm just glad you're all here so I can make it a quartet."

"No speeches, Joe," Methos said. "You in?"

"One for all, buddy," Joe said, and placed his hand over theirs.

\--End--


End file.
